


Sociophobia

by bibliolatry



Series: A Tale of Phobias [11]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Afghanistan, Ambushes and Sneak Attacks, Gen, Military Backstory, Social Phobia, Sociophobia, Where Moriarty comes in
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-31
Updated: 2013-10-31
Packaged: 2017-12-31 01:37:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1025759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bibliolatry/pseuds/bibliolatry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Why Sebastian Moran is heard of, but never seen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sociophobia

Colonel Sebastian Moran was medically discharged from military service due to a phobia resulting from the ambush and obliteration (for there really is no other word for it) of his unit in Helmand Province, Afghanistan on the fifth of August, year two thousand and eleven. Three people, himself included, survived that day.

It had been a routine ‘peace keeping’ mission. They’d stopped at a checkpoint along the way, refreshed a few resources, caught up on the news they’d missed during their three days out of the FOB. Moran was chatting with a buddy he hadn’t seen since the beginning of the tour (they’d been in country for five months by the time). 

It started with a grenade being thrown into the checkpoint. Michaels was wounded, the explosion amputating his left leg. Then the gunfire started. It was stupid to put a checkpoint so close to high ground. Al-Qaeda had easy access, the vantage point. It was suicidal. 

Moran watched as a bullet cut through Murphy’s chin strap, blowing away a large portion of his jaw. Reynolds was next, the bullet piercing his femoral artery. There’d be no way to get him proper medical attention before he bled out. Slow and painful. 

The bullets continued to rain down around them taking out one after another. Moran watched them all go, firing when he could get a clean shot. 

It wasn’t difficult to make the decision to attend sniper school after that. He didn’t want to be in the middle of it all; couldn’t stand the thought of being surrounded by people, friend or foe, and being ripe for the picking. He trained hard, got good, very good. Put everything he had into becoming the best of the best. Eventually his diagnosis became obvious.

Sociophobia. Medical discharge. Return to London. The drugs helped, in a sense. They helped him forget for a bit, but it always returned. The memories of his comrades screams, the whistle of bullets as they zoomed past his head, the gut wrenching fear of having too many people nearby. 

James Moriarty found him in an abandoned home on the outskirts of the city. He was as high as he’d ever been able to get. Six months Moriarty kept him locked in a white room with no windows. Detox was hell, but once he’d come round properly, Moriarty made him an offer he couldn’t refuse. 

They fit, James Moriarty and Sebastian Moran. Two pieces of a puzzle. Moran already had more blood on his hands than he could remove and Moriarty wanted to keep his hands completely clean. Moriarty would text him, burn phones replaced daily (a fire set to the previous one to destroy incriminating evidence). He’d research his target, learn everything he could about him or her, then make his move. He worked alone, didn’t need a spotter. He’d always be better alone. It kept the fear at bay.


End file.
